This week’s article is an essay by one of our treasured correspondents with a contest announcement for Writing It Real subscribers inspired by the essay. Janice Eidus’ essay was to have appeared in an anthology that explored the theme and experience of being Jewish edited by the great comic Alan King, but when he died of lung cancer on Sunday, May 9, 2004, the project altered.

Janice met King when they both appeared at the Toyota Comedy Festival in NYC, and the humor in her essay seems inspired by the kind King displayed in his career, during which, according to interviewer Chet Cooper (Alan King Interviewed by Chet Cooper), King had “never been afraid of his audience.”

At a Black Freedom rally after the first lunch counter sit-in he joked, “Why is everybody carrying on about Woolworth’s? Have you ever eaten at the lunch counter at Woolworth’s? If you wanted to sit in the Colony Club, I could understand it.” After being introduced to the Queen of England she remarked, “How do you do, Mr. King?” Alan responded, “How do you do, Mrs. Queen?” She reportedly was not amused.

It is refreshing when writers turn what we usually think of as politically incorrect “us” and “them” platforms to advantage in evoking their own good-natured stance toward life and humanity.

Following the essay, I present a request for submissions of personal essays about the cultural context of your childhood and how as a child, you made personal use of “otherness.”

The Best Authority
By Janice Eidus

Growing up during the sixties, I was obsessed with Catholicism. My family – left-wing, non-traditional Jews – lived in a largely Italian-Catholic, politically conservative housing project in the Northeast Bronx , where we were very much the minority. Sure, we schmoozed and kibitzed with the Giordanos, Gaglianos, and Giampinos, but we didn’t think, eat, dress, vote, or entertain ourselves the way they did. They went to Sunday Mass, ate lasagna and fettuccini, read the Daily News, slow-danced to Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, and feared the influx of blacks and Puerto Ricans moving into the neighborhood. We attended civil rights demonstrations and labor union rallies, ate noodle kugel with raisins, read Karl Marx, and raucously sang along, hootenanny-style, to Joe Hill, Woody Guthrie, and Leadbelly. “We possess tzedekah (commitment to help others),” my parents would say. “Never forget that, as Jews, we identify with all persecuted peoples.”

 So, sure, I loved being a Jew with tzedekah just like my parents, but I also couldn’t help being deeply envious of the Catholic kids, a number of whom I counted among my closest friends. I envied them so many things: the large number of religious holidays they took off from school; their brightly-lit Christmas trees and beautifully-wrapped gifts; their frilly white Communion dresses. But most of all, I envied them their Virgin Mother: she who had given birth to a baby boy (and what a prince he turned out to be!), without being forced to endure the indignity of having a man’s “private parts” swooshing around inside her planting seeds or whatever disgusting thing they did in order to make babies – or so my girlfriends, my only source of information about sexual and reproductive matters, insisted was true.

The Virgin Mother, I figured, was wise, kind, and nurturing, the kind of older woman who would never brush off my questions about “the birds and the bees” with pursed lips and the comment, “You’re too young to ask such things!,” the way my politically – but not sexually – liberal, mother always did. So, I was thrilled when, one hot August afternoon, the summer before fourth grade, my friend Rosemary Mammano casually mentioned to me that in the big churchyard across the street from the projects there was a statue of the Virgin Mother herself. Since I’d never dared to set foot too close to the Church – frightened that I would instantly be turned into a Catholic – this was news to me.

My heart stirred inside my chest, although I didn’t want to let on to Rosemary how excited I was. Rosemary wasn’t the nicest or most reliable of my friends. Just a few weeks before, she’d said to me, “God likes Catholics a lot better than he likes Jews, because Jews killed Christ!” Since then, I hadn’t been able to fully warm to her or trust her. “Really,” I said now, cautiously, trying to sound as casual as she, “there’s a statue of the Virgin Mother in the churchyard?”

She loudly popped her chewing gum. “Yeah.” She looked at me with some suspicion. “It’s past the monk’s quarters and the wading pool.”

Before she began to wonder about why I was so curious, I changed the subject. “Let’s walk to the candy store so I can get some gum like yours.” Meanwhile, I was memorizing: the monk’s quarters; the wading pool. So, if I could ever just gather enough courage to enter the Immaculate Conception churchyard, I would meet the Virgin Mother herself! But what if, by doing so, I really did become a Catholic? Not only would my parents never forgive me, but I’d probably end up being a bad Catholic and burning in Hell for all eternity.

Nevertheless, the very next day, another sweltering August afternoon, I wiped my brow, took a deep breath, crossed the street, and opened the latch on the church gate. As long as I remained in the yard, I told myself, and didn’t actually set foot inside the church, nothing terrible would happen to me. I would still be Jewish, and I would still possess ibergegebenkayt.

I began to walk as quickly as I could, along a narrow dirt path bordered by a few large trees offering intermittent shade. Soon, to my right, I saw a plain-looking, low, white building with a tiny, murky wading pool in front. The monk’s quarters; the wading pool. I was getting close. I walked even faster.

And then … the Virgin Mother, herself, reigning there in the churchyard all alone, with no baby or adult Jesuses, no angels or cherubs, to keep her company. Awe-struck, I stared up at her, as the wild-growing grass tickled my sandaled feet. She seemed larger than life, towering above me as though the top of her head actually touched the tip of Heaven. Her skin was ivory and luminous; her mouth benevolent and full. I pictured her gathering me up in her maternal arms, tenderly smoothing my hair and stroking my forehead, tirelessly answering my questions about everything under the sun.

It’s now or never, I thought. I pressed together the palms of my hands, hoping to mimic correct prayer position. There were a million things I wanted to ask her, like, would I ever be popular? Why did my father lose his temper so often, and my mother seem so sad? But, my time with the Virgin Mother was limited and precious, and I would just ask two questions, the most urgent and pressing ones I had.

Bowing my head, I pressed my hands more tightly together. Unsure how to address her, I whispered, “Oh Dear Holy Virgin Mother, I hope you will answer my questions, even though I’m Jewish.” I cleared my throat, hesitated, then forced myself to continue. “Does God really dislike us Jews?” My cheeks grew hot. “Also, can you please tell me how to become a Virgin Mother like you, so that no man will ever put his private parts inside me?” Heart pounding, out of breath, suddenly on the verge of tears, I waited for her to answer me.

But she was silent. Her beautiful eyes revealed nothing. My palms were still pressed together tightly, and my wrists ached as I waited … and waited. Then, just as I was about to give up hope, she began to speak. In a wise, soft, musical voice, she said, “Dear Child …”

I gasped. The Virgin Mother was actually speaking to me, and she had called me ‘Dear!’ Sure, I knew it was weird that a statue was talking, but, hey, I lived in a Bronx housing project and had already witnessed plenty of weird things in my short lifetime, like the bearded man on the fourth floor of my building who walked around the grounds of the projects holding an open can of beer, with a squawking parrot perched on one shoulder and a poker-faced puppet on the other. And, sure, maybe on some level I understood that I had something to do with the Virgin Mother’s remarkable power of speech, but that didn’t really matter, did it? All that really mattered was that she was talking to me.

“Dear Child,” she continued in a voice like a soothing lullaby, “God loves all people, especially secular Jews with tzedekah.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, casting my eyes down with what I hoped was appropriate humility and gratitude. But what about my second question? Was she going to ignore it? Was she angry that I had dared to bring up the dirty, filthy subject of sex in her presence? Or, even worse, was she angry that I had dared to say that I wanted to be like her?

But then I heard her voice, clear and strong. “Dear Child,” she said, “I promise you that one day you will become a mother – and you’ll do it just the way you’ll want to do it.”

I was exhilarated. She understood me so well. “Thank you,” I whispered again, dropping my hands to my sides. It was time to leave. I had taken enough of her time, and it might be dangerous for me to remain any longer. I turned around and once again began to walk quickly, so fast I was nearly running, heading for home along the run-down path, past the muddy little wading pool and the lonely-looking monk’s quarters. I swatted at a mosquito that nevertheless managed to land on my shoulder and take a big bite, but I skipped and jumped, far too happy to care.

Exiting the churchyard, I looked left and right to make sure that no-one was around and that my secret journey would remain a secret. Then I crossed the street to the projects and was on safe territory again. With trepidation, I pinched my sweaty arm, and was thrilled that my skin felt the same way it always had – clearly, it was still Jewish skin. My tzedekah was intact; my parents would never know what I had done.

Pinching myself again, a little harder, I allowed myself, at last, to smile, secure in my new knowledge that not only did God love me, but also that I was going to grow up to be the second Virgin Mother. I had it on the best authority.

****

If you have written an essay (or if you go ahead and write one now) that explores your childhood relationship to a culture outside your family’s, please submit it to me by April 30. In June, we will publish the winning essay in the Gallery section of the magazine.

Here’s a prompt to get going:

Think of the ethnic groups represented in your childhood neighborhood or school. If you didn’t live in a diverse neighborhood, think geographically. Who had moved in from some other part of the country? Or think socio-economically. Who didn’t have as much money as your family or who had much, much more? Were there disabled people? Think about someone in particular from one of the groups. Think about what you enjoyed about a friend, neighbor, shopkeeper, teacher, or classmate from one group that others of your background discounted. Tell the story of a time you escaped your own background to use or experience what you admired in theirs.

I am looking forward to reading the essays you submit by email (sbender@writingitrreal.com) April 30. Besides publishing the winning essay, I will also write about the honorable mentions. Notification of the winner and honorable mentions will be in May with the articles posted in June.